VERSES BACATEU,E 



^r«r&*»«»j if mmi'U imt 0f« mm mm 
ifate Atmmhm, m mcoue, «»» wMmkmy 9IU, 

f If* '-mirtk 0' rhymm to faivmmt mlih 

Wmk* «» ihm mat,'* 



lACK HARDINC- 




Class J5iiL^_iaii 



Book . A^ sT^ V^ 

1*3 13 



Copyright N". 



COPKBIGHT DEP08IE 



I 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Verses Bagatelle 4 

Happiness 8 

Of How I was a Boy — 

Earliest Recollections 9 

At School (Col. Adair) 13 

Montgomery's Old Mill 16 

The Coon Fight 20 

TheCock Fight 21 

The Dog Fight 21 

Foot Ball 22 

The Prize Fight 22 

The Horse Race 23 

The Chase 24 

The Haunted House 30 

Kentucky 36 

Kentucky Home Coming 37 

The Journey to the Sea 39 

Divide by Two 41 

Ye Grand Old Trees on Brookwood Lawn 44 

Pedigrees and Coats of Arms 46 

Personals 48 

TheThreadof Life 51 

Ode to the Sun 53 

To the Goddess of Fortune 55 

They Will Miss Me 56 

Robbie Burns 57 

Perry Money 60 

Rev. Raccoon John Smith 62 

Lycurgus Smith 63 

Slimy Slick, Atty. at Law - 66 



PAGE 

MyDearPha -- ^ 

My Own Sweet Cousin 

Bungle Boo-Loo 

Dear Nancy 

Hon. G. Allison Holland '' 

Uncle Wash ^^ 

Volunteer Star— Pando ^ 

Capt.Jack ^ 

Whyjostlea Neighbor °^ 

Andy Jackson 

r>>,, _ OV 

Pr"- 92 

Life 

Still Give That Tender Glance to Me ^^ 

Can I Forget 

Don't Sit on the Grass 

Jennie and I 

Clare ^ 

Annie Dooley ' 

Where'sthe Hand ^^ 

It is Sweet 

My Wife's New Bonnet J^ 

Give Me a Place |^^ 

Jessie, Sweet and Tender 

Gunga Jinnie 

Sweet-Helen— A Vision 

Love — Fair and False 



Verses 
Bagatelle 

"Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, an' whiskey gill. 
An rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, 
Tak' a' the rest." 

— Burns. 

^fe ' - 

JACK HARDING 



C. T. DEARING PRINTING CO. 
LOUISVILLE. KY. 

19 13 



^ J 






^t^^ 



f.- 



COPYRIGHT 1913. BY 

JACK HARDING, 

PLEAStTEEVILLE, KT. 



©CI.A350788 



Judge R. F. Peak, Louisville, Ky. 

My Dear Frank: Most of these ryhmes were cobbled 
up when I was confined to the house by ill health and bad 
weather. They have somewhat relieved the tedium of many 
painful hours. Much is open to criticism. However, they were 
not made for the public eye, but solely to amuse myself, as one 
sometimes plays the lonely game of solataire to kill time. As 
they express the passing thought at the moment of jotting it 
down I prefer to let them remain in their present homespun 
dress. I'm having only a few copies printed for my friends, 
and at their request. 

The story of "How I was a Boy" was written to amuse my 
children. Some of the love conceits are mushy and gushy — 
long life to 'em! An old man, however ridiculous, lives his 
life twice over who can still recall with pleasure the mushy and 
gushy follies of his mad youth. Ah ! if we could live them over 
in fact, and not in fancy. 

Trusting these bagatelles will not unduly shock your correct 
artistic sense, nor that of other friends, I am. 




Brookwood, 
Pleasureville, Ky. 
1913. 



VERSES BAGATELLE 

Some play heroes in the war, 
Some play doctors of the law, 
Some the markets rise and fall. 
Some play cards, some play ball ; 
Anything will do quite well 
That beguiles life's brief spell : 
Give me verses bagatelle. 

Some in stately blank verse blunder. 

Thinking their names down the ages will thunder. 

(Let me ask, do you remember 

A single leaf that fell in November?) 

A nonsense rhyme will do as well. 

If it amuses an idle spell; 

Vive la bagatelle. 

Worry, worry killed the cat, 

And no growler e'er was fat; 

When your wife's disposed to grumble, 

Out of the house quickly tumble. 

Soon the storm will blow over 

And again you'll be in clover — 



Anything will do very well; 
Go to your club for a spell, 
Or write verses bagatelle. 

Better to smile than to sigh, 

You may live and you must die; 

"Whence and whither?" philosophers cry. 

Never reason nor ask why. 

For by taking much thought on it 

You can never learn aught of it. 

The limit the human mind can go 

Is, sayeth Spencer, *'We don't know;** 

With toil and moil and labor sore, 

A whole book he writ to tell us so ; 

Of philosophers, great and small. 

Many say he is the profoundest of all. 

Science will supplant religion, they say. 
Scientists may argue till they are gray ; 
They will never bridge the awful chasm 
Until they can create life in the protoplasm. 
Other philosophers idly chatter. 
Eternal are Life, Energy and Matter; 
The Pantheist degrades the Sublime Creator. 

Old Hornies tongue's keen's a feather; 
He would catch you with his blether. 
Don't let 'im cheat you of your soul. 
Who doubts a Creator is a fool. 



At your hand, your watch, merely glance — 

Are these the result of blind Chance? 

Study its order and system, you will find 

The Universe is controlled by an intelligent mind. 

Trust God: He is good; 

He above who guides the stars, 

Is able to manage your little cares. 

With God in knowledge man would be equal, 

But what was the ridiculous sequel? 

His presumptious tower of Bable 

Shows how little he was able. 

In vain we impiously pry 

Into the mysteries of God on high. 

Trust all to the benevolent Jehovah, 

And the dark river He'll ferry us over. 

He who kindly brought us whence 

Will as kindly take us hence. 

If this philosophy you seriously doubt it. 

What are you going to do about it? 

Reason the question as you will. 

You pursue the same circle still 

And end where you began before. 

With the admission, " We don't know.'* 

We must trust, and trust we must. 

If we can't trust the benevolent Creator, 

What security do you offer better? 



Why be ever doubting. 

Why be ever pouting, 

Why go through life moping. 

Like the worm blindly groping? 

The butterfly sips the flower, 

Happy each golden hour. 

Gaily flitting hither and thither. 

Never asking "Whence nor whither?' 

Enjoy the day when it shines. 
Smoke cigars when it rains; 
Write pastoral lines that jingle 
To the sheep-bell's pleasant tinkle; 
Or rhymes that roar and rumble 
Like the lion in his jungle: 
Let your thoughts come in jumbles. 
Until each over the other tumbles; 
And when in the mire you flounder, 
Tell the critics to go to thunder. 
Anything will do quite well 
If it relieves an irksome spell; 
Give me verses one can't sell — 
Give me verses bagatelle. 



HAPPINESS 

A mighty Caliph in Spain reigned fifty years. 

Beloved by his subjects and feared by his foes ; 

Riches and honor, power and pleasure awaited his nod. 

And his every command was obeyed as a god; 

He diligently numbered the happy days he had seen, 

They amounted in all to just fourteen! 

What a king may miss a peasant may find, 

What a philosopher can't see may be plain to the blind. 

Happiness is sought by all and found by few. 

Its secret source is hidden from view ; 

Trace the limpid stream to the start. 

You will find it rises in the heart. 

Through a long and busy life. 
With Pain I've waged unceasing strife; 
I've seen the days pass in funeral plight, 
And heard the hours toll the livelong night. 
Yet have preserved a cheerful mind 
And brother-love for human kind. 

Sore disappointment hath not brought despair, 

When treacherous Fortune smiled most fair; 

Nor when, in surly mood, she frowned and glowered. 

Has carking care my temper soured. 

I've been contented with little, I've been canty with more. 

And my happy days are too many to tell them o'er. 

8 




MARGARET CAMPBELL HARDING 

" The years have not effaced her sweet embrace, 
Her charming grace, her lovely face. 
Her happy twinkling eye I'll remember 'till I die. 



See Appendix, Note 1 



OF HOW I WAS A BOY 
(A Tale to My Children) 

Jackie Dear: 
The wind is a-wailing and the sleet is a-hailing. 
The fire is bright this long winter night. 
From your drowsy looks you are weary of books, 
Sc if you will attend, as best I can. 
Like an old soldier whose brave deeds are done, 
Who clatters on his stumps with his crutch for his gun, 
And shows little boys how battles were won, 
J '11 tell you a story of how I was a boy 
A 1-o-n-g time ago. 

EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS 
On finding myself a tiny little elf 
In the wild whirl of this strange world, 
The first I remember, one Christmas in December, 
I was mighty glad and sister mighty mad 
That I wasn't a little girl and my hair wouldn't curl. 
And I could ride straddle on a boy's saddle. 
And gallop a cock-horse to Banbury Cross. 

The next I remember one sweet Sabbath day, 

To church darling mamma had been to pray. 

And I ran with glee to meet her on the way : 

7 he years have not effaced her sweet embrace. 

Her charming grace, her lovely face. 

Her happy twinkling eye I'll remember till I die!* 



*See Appendix, Note 1. 

9 



I soon grew up to be a brawly boy, 

A fond father's pride and a doting mother's joy. 

I wasn't very little nor very big — just a medium little pig; 

I could eat frogs and snails, crows and quails, 

'Possums and coons and pecks of prunes. 

And digest whole pails of ten-penny nails. 

The boys raised squabbles at the way I played marbles; 

I'd win their taws and this caused rows, 

A kicking and clawing, a choking and chawing, 

And from my nose the blood often flows. 

But my nose I blows and at 'em I goes. 

Being rather small by big Billy Stovall, 
I'm often badly licked in double quick; 
Yet while grass grows and water flows, 
I give him a fight by day or by night ; 
But a boy of my size, I did truly despise 
His blows and blocks and his solar plexus shocks. 
For right at him I'd go butting and biting, kicking and fighting: 
Oh ! 'twas a delight to have a rattling fight. 
And let the boys know I was a hero 
In those happy days. 

I've often caught the hare in my cunning snare. 

And screwed with a pole Mr. 'Possum from his hole; 

I've tumbled the quail as away they would sail ; 

10 



A squirrel ever so high I could fetch in the eye, 
And with a rifle shot I could make a little dot 
Pretty dinged close to the centre of the spot. 

But the best shooting I ever did of all 
Was thirteen squirrels with fourteen ball. 
Now you may think this a story all in fun, 
But every word is true as a gun, 
And if Wash* wasn't dead and gone, 
He*d prove to you I am no Munchausen. 

The first fish I ever caught. 

Rod and line I quite forgot. 

And in extacy flew away home 

To show darling mamma my wondrous game. 

And this happy world has never brought a joy 

Quite equal to this one when I was a boy! 

Over the ice I'd skim like a swallow. 

And, crack! I broke through up to my collar — 

Oh ! 'twas a shame to hear the boys holla. 

Ugh! but 'twas cold upon my soul. 

Never till death will I be shorter of breath ; 

Tho freezing and wheezing, barking and sneezing, 

I doffed my duds for wringing and squeezing, 

*A negro boy given me by my father and my Sancho Panza. 



11 



Then I dried by a big brush fire, 

Fearing to face the ire of my sire, 

For I had stolen away against his commands. 

And I feared the strapping I'd receive at his hands. 

Now this was a fooHsh thing to do; 

I might have had croup and pneumonia, too. 

It now seems to me they had all gone hence, 

But for some special providence 

That watches over boys and billy goats. 

So dangerous are their silly sports. 

Always remember this to the end. 
No matter how much you may offend. 
Old Daddy is the boy's best friend. 
Ever revere him, never fear him; 
Tell him your troubles, your little foibles. 
And when other friends forsake you. 
Daddy will always stake you: 
The old fellow has the ready siller — 
Don't you hear it jingled Can't you hear it tinkle? 
His clinking pocket he'll never lock it 
Against you, Jackie boy.* 



*Thank God ! I never did. 



12 



AT SCHOOL 
(Col. John Adair*) 

In sorrow and dool I went to school 
To many a blasted infernal fool. 
Who knew not a boy from a mule: 
With switches and sticks 
I received many licks. 
I'd sooner drown in the River Styx, 
Or take my chances with Old Nick, 
Than go to school to such noodles 
Unfit to teach hounds or poodles. 

If ever I meet "Old Farris" again. 
Ignorant and mean, conceited and vain. 
To his bull head my fist I will send, 
And a sound kicking I'll give his blunt end. 

But for Col. John Adair, 
A teacher kind, noble and fair, 
I do most solemnly swear 
I had died in utter despair. 
Deprived of all youthful joys 
By these tyrants over little boys. 



^See Appendix, Note 2. 

13 



They'd ding me and dang me, 

Beat me and bang me. 

But my spirit they ne'er could conquer, 

I'd see 'em damned e'er I'd whimper! 

But they made me a mule at their school. 

And did their best to make me a fool. 

But Johnnie Adair, oh, he was rare ; 
He stroked me gently on the hair. 
And heard my lessons with kindly care; 
And for him, let me say, 
I would study night and day. 
And steal an hour e'en from play ! 
Of a mule he made a little man — 
Colonel, dear, here's my hand ! 

Fifty years since then have sped, 
Master and most of the boys are dead; 
But I remember him as fondly today 
As when he used kindly to say: 
"Well done, boys! Now go play." 

He was in Cuba with Crittenden, 
At bloody Shiloh he lead his men; 
Now he sleeps in a hero's grave. 
The bravest among all the brave. 



14 



Born many a year after his day. 
He belonged to age of chivalry, 
When, clothed in knightly gear 
From nodding plume to golden spur. 
He had been the peer 
Of Bayard, Roland and Oliver, 
And with Tancred, of glorious fame. 
First to scale the walls of Jerusalem. 

May the grass grow green above you, 
Is the prayer of one who loved you; 
There ye meadowlark sing in the dawning. 
There ye nightingale sing in the gloaming. 
While a soldier takes his rest. 



15 



MONTGOMERY S OLD MILL. 

The days steal on to December; 

Friends fall like leaves in November; 

Passion burns to ashes and cinder; 

Ambition totters and leans on his cane; 

Intellect shatters and babbles again ; 

Hope eludes us, which promised fo fair, 

And leaves us deserted to die in despair ; 

But Memory lags the last on the stage, 

Consoling and condoling our dreary old age: 

Of the recollections that linger there still, 

None is more dear than Montgomery's Old Mill. 

The mill w^ent click and then it went clack. 
Slow and steady as grandmother's clock; 
The miller stood still and the stone turned round, 
Grain by grain the corn dropped down. 
And into fine meal the grist was ground. 

A bushel an hour was it's usual run. 
From dawn of day to set of sun; 
But if the water was low and the stones were dull, 
Only three pecks she'd grind by the hardest pull. 
The stone turned round and the miller stood still. 
And this was the way at Montgomery's Old Mill 
A — long — time — ago ! 

16 



Boys were there for miles around 
With their corn to be ground. 
While we waited for our grist, 
No chance for sport we ever missed; 
And when boys can't "raise Cain," 
Sure the world is near its end. 

With a plunge and a shiver. 

We'd swim in the river — 

We'd angle from the dam. 

And the fish slam 

With a jerk and a yank. 

Slap against the bank: 

Our horses we'ed race 'em. 

And rack 'em and pace 'em. 

We'd run 'em and trot 'em 

To try their speed and bottom — 

We'd win each other's taws. 

Which caused little wars 

That we'd settle fist and claws: 

Our dogs we'd fight 

And to see 'em chaw and bite 

Was a heavenly delight 

To the boys shouting round. 

We'd tease the dusty miller, 
For he was a crusty fellow. 
To hear him swear and holler, 
We*d put tobacco in his butter 

17 



To see him spit and sputter; 
And in his pipe, powder, 
To hear him shout murder! 
We'd sew his sacks with stitches 
And stick pins in his breeches, 
And he'd call us little bitches ; 
We'd tie a tin pail 
To his cur's tail 
To see him run and wail. 
And we'd dog his little shoat. 
And ride his billy goat. 
And take him in a boat. 
That same billy goat. 
And teach him how to float 
To the bottom of the stream ! 
Oh, the times we've had. 
The frolic and the fun 
In the days that are gone 
At the Old Mill! 

Witches and warlocks are all now dead. 
But when I was a boy they were mighty bad. 
Horses they'd ride and make stirrups in the mane, 
Cows they'd milk and give the murrain, 
Negroes they'd hoodoo and compel them to steal. 
Churches they'd rock till their steeples would reel. 
Drunkards they'd throw in a ditch or a well. 
And bad little boys they'd ride 'em to hell. 

18 



Playing checkers one day in Montgomery's Old Mill, 

And eating parched corn our "willies" to fill. 

The old miller came shaking and quaking with an 

awful spell, 
Saying, the witches and warlocks had hoodooed his mill; 
It still went click-clack and the stone turned round, 
And grain by grain the corn dropped down. 
But in the meal tub no meal was found!!! 

Just then we heard a ghostly yell ! ! 
Up into the loft we scrambled pell mell. 
There for an hour we lay on the floor. 
Not daring to move a finger or toe. 
During the time we heard never a sound. 
Except click-clack and the stone turn round. 
And grain by grain the corn drop down. 

At last the old miller peeped through a crack in the 

flooring 
To see what the witches and warlocks were doing : 
"Save us, holy Moses! It's too awful to tell! 
"Peep boys and you'll see what ails my mill!" 

There! — skinny and bony a spector fell, 
Eyes staring and glaring with the fire of hell. 
Snapping his fangs and waving his tail. 
Lapping his tongue and gulping it down. 
Stood — the miller's starved hound. 
Eating the meal as fast as it ground! ! 

19 



The old miller has turned to dust, 

The old mill has gone to rust, 

Long ago the boys have fled. 

And nearly all are with the dead; 

Yet oft fond Memory haunts me still 

And my eyes sometimes fill 

When I think of Montgomery's Old Mill. 



When older I grew I was much inclined 
To more doubtful sports and less refined. 
My mother said I'd sure be hung. 
My father replied 'twas good as done; 
For in the town you could not pick 
A wilder lad than your daddy Jack. 

THE COON FIGHT 

It was my delight to see a coon fight; 

No matter how dark, to hear the dogs bark 

Far down the hollow was worth a dollar. 

And when the tree fell there rose a mighty yell, 

A scuffling and hustling, a bustling and tussling, 

A growling and biting, a howling and fighting — 

At last Mr. Coon is nailed by Rover, 

One wild shriek and all is over! 

Oh, such fun you'll never see 

Until you cut an old coon's tree. 

20 




VICTOR 
An imported London pit dog. 



See Appendix, Note 3. 



THE COCK FIGHT 
I've seen the cock of purest strain 
Fight his battle in the deadly main; 
The gaffs of steel he seems not to feel, 
His pure courage will never yield. 
Bleeding and dying he still keeps trying. 
Again he wheels and forward reels. 
With his last gasp he strikes at his foe. 
And falls over dead upon the floor! 
The gamest of all creation. 

THE DOG FIGHT 
I've seen bulldogs pitted in battle. 
Admired by sports and other cattle; 
Now they growl, rear and wrestle 
With each other in deadly tussle. 
Panting, frothing and reeking with blood: 
Like raging tigers tearing their food. 
They chew each other's legs and ears — 
While the mob wildly cheers. 
Long and fiercely the battle rages. 
To tell it all would take pages; 
But now Victor* seizes the other's throat, 
His wind is cut, his tongue hangs out 
Wild eyes bulge from his head — 
Brave old Bowser! he is dead! 
To the sports it seems delightful. 
But the game is truly frightful. 



*See Appendix, Note 3. 

21 



FOOT BALL 

I've seen braw lads tackle the ball, 
Make a centre rush and in a heap fall. 
Mingled and jumbled like eggs scrambled. 
With cracked scones and skinned shin-bones, 
Eyes in mourning, grunting and groaning, 
With bloody nose and tattered clothes. 
Scrambling and biting like coon-dogs fighting; 
Spectators yelling and rooting, shouting and hooting, 
Wild with rage like lunatics caged I 
Oh, 'tis joy to see what fun can be 
In a thing so small as a foot-ball — 
And to call it ''Athletics." 

THE PRIZE FIGHT 

I've seen prize fighters in the squared circle. 
Big, naked bulls, all bone and all muscle; 
They eye, they shy, they feint and they fiddle. 
Block, sidestep and dance hi-da-diddle ; 
Out-shoots a right straight to the nose, 
Forth the red "claret" abundantly flows; 
One is smashed square in the face, 
Down on his back "he goes to grass;" 
A left to the "peeper" closes an eye, 
Straight "to the wind" is the other's reply; 
A "solar plexus" bore bends one double; 
A cheek laid open pays for his trouble. 

22 



Bleeding and raging "science" now fails, 
Their arms are flying like fast flying flails, 
Boreing and punching, beating and pounding. 
Shouts through the hall wildly resounding. 
Now a chance blow lands on the jaw. 
He drops on the spot like a beef that is shot; 
The huge body quivers, then it shivers — 
The fight is done, the battle's lost and won. 
And they call it the "Science of self-defense.** 

THE HORSE RACE 

Tve seen the fleet racer of Arabian blood 
Trained to the hour until he is good, 
Speeding around the circular track. 
The dust swirling far at his back; 
His rivals, like blood-hounds, at his throat-latch, 
As bunched they rush down the back-stretch. 
With the will of a demon now he is flying. 
He'll be doing or he'll be dying. 
His mouth wide open, his ears back lying. 
His tendons most cracking, his heart most breaking. 
His red nostrils flaring, his eyeballs glaring. 
Like an arrow of fire he shoots under the wire ; 
And, with fortunes staked on his cause. 
The multitude bursts into thunderous applause! 
Indeed it is "the sport of kings.*' 



23 



THE CHASE 

Of exciting sports I have gone the round, 

But none I know makes the blood so bound 

As riding a fleet hunter to fox and hound. 

I've known fine sportsmen and hounds of pure race, 

And I'll tell you a story of a meet and a chase. 

Penick was there, a hunter bold, 
A lineal son of Nimrod of old, 
Always wearing his hunting-horn 
And ever attended by a dozen hound ; 
To the chase he was so prone. 
If none would join, he'd hunt alone. 

There was Marshall of Buckner's Hill, 

Of hunting he ne'er could get his fill; 

The deep-toned mouths of his "Biscuit" and "Gravy' 

Would thrill the hunters 'till almost crazy. 

And there was blithe Davy Towle, 
Of hunters bold the very soul ; 
A young lawyer he, of many degrees. 
For eloquence surpassing Demosthenes; 
But if ever he heard the hounds in full cry, 
Books, briefs and law-suits, all goodbye; 
He'd mount Pizarro and after them fly. 
Music, his little red bitch was swift as a witch. 
And her sweet voice echoing in the glen 
Would stir the souls of the dullest men. 

24 



Bessie, my rare chestnut mare of Eclipse blood, 

Strains of Herod-Matchen to make the charm good. 

Stout, trim, smart as a scholar, 

Nimble as a cat, swift as a swallow, 

Loving the run as a boy his gun. 

To speed her was bliss sweet as a kiss ; 

A better hunter ne'er followed hound. 

Known and praised the country 'round. 

And old Davy, the head of my pack. 

His pedigree harking 'way back 

To old Virginia and English blood 

That chased Robert Bruce in Scotland's wood; 

A truer dog never struck trails. 

And of courage that never quails. 

And there were several others more, 

Too many now to name them o er ; 

For we are met in the Court House square. 

Hunters and packs from near and far 

To try a famous red fox, which many a day 

Had baffled hunter and hound of their prey. 

He loved the chase as well as the dogs. 

He'd lead 'em through thickets and bogs. 

And take a circuit of ten miles. 

And bring them back to his native wilds. 

He'd cross his track, zig-zag and double. 

And puzzle our wits with all sorts o' trouble. 

He thought it nothing at all 

25 



To run along a high stone wall, 
And jump ten feet to a haystack 
To throw the dogs clear off his track ; 
And again in the height of the chase, 
When right after him we hotly race. 
He'd suddenly vanish and disappear, 
Leaving hunters and hounds in blank despair. 

This sly fox we've so often lost. 

That farmers swear it is the ghost 

Of old Simpson who was hung 

For foul murders he had done; 

But "Old Simpson," we'll know today, 

Whether you be a fox or a fay. 

Merrily we wind our hunting horns. 
Merrily bark and bay the hounds. 
Merrily the horses paw and prance, 
Merrily our spirits lightly dance. 
Merrily we ride to the country side 
Twenty riders and forty dogs, 
A picture for the canvas of Scruggs ! 

Now we send the dogs to cover. 

And on a hillock wait their endeavor; 

Presently a young hound yelps and barks. 

But on the fact no one remarks; 

It begins to seem the fox has flown. 

Today "Old Simpson" is from home. 

26 



But hark! old Davy's deep bass bay! 
Horses and men prick ears for the fray. 
For both know he'll never lie, 
And both make ready to do or die. 

Anon the pack is in full cry — 
Hollo! ho! he comes this way. 
His wild eyes with fire gleaming. 
His fine brush behind him streaming — 
Huzza! huzza! we join the chase. 
Madly across the plain we race. 

The dogs are crying, the fox is flying 
Down the steep into the "Fairy's Dell;" 
Hard after we plunge pell mell ; 
Marshall's horse turns a somersault. 
But there's no time now to halt: 
On he flies dowTi the dark glen. 
Hotly we pursue with thundering din. 
The cliffs echoing it back again. 

Down the branch splashing and spattering. 
Dogs are yelling, hoofs are clattering; 
Forward we push, fiercely we rush — 
A twelve foot brook we clear at a bound, 
Man and horse, fox and hound. 



27 



Up a long hill, onward we press 
Trying the wind of the best ; 
Over barnyard fences madly we clatter. 
Pigs and poultry wildly scatter; 
Children are harking, curs are barking. 
The farmer mounts his mule in haste. 
With wild huzzas he joins the chase. 

On, on we rush to the "Devil's Thicket," 
Now the yells are fierce and wicked. 
Bodies and clothes are tattered and torn 
By briar and bush, bramble and thorn; 
Of my hat my head's bereft. 
Some dogs and men in the jungle are left. 

The survivors press with furious zeal 
Onward through a broom-sage field; 
The fox and two dogs climb a stone wall. 
Others weary and faint, scramble and fall. 
Some of the horses refuse to leap. 
Others try and flounder in a heap; 
Towles and I, side by side, are riding fast, 
Think I, old fellow, I have you at last. 
Both, rising abreast, clear the wall at a bound! 
And on we race after fox and hound. 

Soon, soon, the chase must end. 
He labors hard to gain his den 
In the cliff just half mile away — 

28 



Can flesh and blood so far stay? 

His tongue hangs out, his brush is trailing. 

His faltering lope shows he's failing, 

A rod behind two dogs toil with pain. 

But never a foot can they gain. 

We whip and spur, we urge and shout. 

Our spent horses are all out, 

Breath is failing, horses are reeling. 

Feet are miles, seconds are hours — 

Is he safe, or is he ours? 

A fallen log he strives to leap 

And tumbles backward in a heap, 

Davy and Music on him rush! 

Jumping down we take his brush! 

"Who's?" quoth I, with eager eyes. 
"Honors are equal," Towles replies; 
Huzza! we waive the brush above our head 
And the bugle wail we sound for the dead. 

The sun is sinking in the West. 

Leaving the toiler the night for rest, 

The quiet evening hour to wistful maid 

Dreaming of her lover long delayed; 

Our bugle calls wake hill and glen. 

Telling hunters and hounds of the chase's end 



29 



Our jaded horses embossed with foam. 
Ourselves weary, tattered and torn. 
Slowly to town we wend our way 
For at Allen's old tavern we end the day. 

The dogs are fed and put to bed. 

The horses are watered and snugly quartered. 

The table groans with game and wine. 

At nine at night we are seated to dine. 

We eat with all the hunter's keen relish. 

And hunting tales the feast embellish; 

Each recounts his story of the day. 

Telling how he fared in the fray. 

To Pizarro and Bessie, Davy and Music we drink a toast. 

And one to noble "Old Simpson's" ghost. 

And one to the girl each loves the most. 

At twelve we retire to the hunter's sound rest 

And sleep 'till the sun peeps over the mountain's crest. 

THE HAUNTED HOUSE* 
One afternoon as I travelled the King's highway. 
Going to a friends the night to stay, 
For a meet and a chase the next day, 
Omnious clouds began to lower; 
To escape the impending shower 
I rode with my hounds into Barret's stone house. 
Long since deserted by man and mouse; 



^See Appendix, Note 4. 

30 



Built in a deep glen in early days 

As a fort of defense 'gainst Indian forays; 

A sparkling spring beneath the floor 

A siege 'twould stand a month or more. 

Here the pioneers were often surrounded, 

Many an Indian they killed and wounded; 

Here the darkest deeds you ever saw 

By counterfeiter, murderer and outlaw; 

Here the strangest sights were seen. 

Livid lights of blue and green; 

At night the most dreadful sounds 

In the old castle oft resounds: 

Screaming and fighting, thunder and lightning- 

In a word, they say, the house is haunted; 

By such fustain I was nothing daunted. 

From superstition I was quite exempt 

And for wraithes and ghosts I had contempt. 

The rain long continued unabated 
Until quite dark I was belated ; 
Like a true hunter I go into camp, 
Build a fire to keep out the damp. 
Halter Bessie to the chimney-breast. 
The hounds stretch on the hearth to rest; 
For pillow my saddle beneath my head. 
Oak floor is soft as feather-bed; 
Through my brain sweet visions pass 
And soon I soundly sleep at last. 

31 



Sweetly sleep till the midnight houi 
When ghosts and fiends have most power; 
Then, awakened by the lightning's flash. 
Followed by the thunder's crash; 
Bessie trembles all over with horror. 
The dogs crouch in abject terror, 
Unknown ever in danger to quail. 
Old Davy, shivering, now tucks his tail; 
"Brace up ye curs! Why quake so? 
Didst never see a storm before?" 

Presently I hear a dying wail — 
"Pish, 'tis only the mourning gale." 
And now chains clank and rattle, 
Groans, struggles and deadly battle. 
Alarmed, I draw my hunting knife. 
Upstairs are robbers in fearful strife: 
Comes a groan wild and shrill 
Which through my body sends a chill. 
Then all is hushed and deathly still. 

Slowly a livid light fills the room. 
An awful silence pervades the gloom; 
Down the stairs file demons of doom. 
Take their places along the wall. 
And frozen with terror I stand appalled! 



32 



There's Frank Jones hanging to a rafter. 
Eyes and tongue protruding in fiendish laughter; 
And Nance Hazel standing in her coffin. 
Shrieking and praying, blaspheming and scoffing 
The terrors of death have swollen her face. 
She curses and prays, hopeless of grace. 
There's Sile Skaggs with his throat cut. 
Before the mob its vengeance could glut, 
Bloody razor still clutched in his grip, 
Burley, cock-eyed, frightful, cantraip; 
And old Saddler grinning and chattering. 
Bony fingers on thigh-bones clattering. 
Snake heads licking flashes of fire 
From his eye-sockets eldritch and dire; 
And there's old Simpson, haggard and hoar. 
Beard all tangled and matted with gore ; 
A dagger piercing another's bloody shroud. 
She utters a scream wild and loud ! 
I, Bessie and dogs rush out pell mell, 
In horror we fly the haunted dell. 

On the hillside I fall, out of breath. 
Shivering and frightened nigh unto death. 
The haunted house is all on fire! 
From it issue blasphemings dire ; 
The fiends are writhing in its flames. 
Screaming with immortal pains — 



33 



Round and round and round they go, 
Back and forth, to and fro. 
Twisting and turning, writhing and burning. 
Tongues out-hanging, parching, thirsting, 
And their eyes with horror bursting. 

Comes again the lightning's flash. 
Followed by the thunder's crash; 
Instantly all is dark and lone, 
Their hour has struck! the fiends are gone! 

You who ghosts so boldly deny. 
For only one night suppose you try 
Barret's stone house in the haunted dell. 
And the next day j;our story tell. 

Spirits are around, about, above us. 
Those that hate and those that love us. 
Some to evil drive and ride us. 
Some to good lead and guide us, 
Spirits good and spirits fell. 
Some from heaven and some from hell. 
For evil deeds these will haunt us. 
For good deeds those will grant us 
Peace on earth — good will to men. 



34 



I purposed to continue this tale a little further, but, Jackie 
dear, the joy of my life, is dead ! my heart is broken ; and the 
pen falls from my hand. With unbroken courage I have 
stood up against many disasters, but this last thrust of Fortune 
has found the vital spot and I sink down under it, never to 
rise. I toiled half my life in building a beautiful Castle; it was 
just completed and I was elate with pride and hope — but it 
has crumbled to dust in an hour. And thus my story, as my 
life, ends in sorrow and despair. 



35 



KENTUCKY 

Loved Kentucky, land of the blest, 
Never by the heel of the tyrant opprest; 
Plenty pours from the horn of Cornucopia, 
Happy are the children of the land of Utopia. 

From the fierce Norman her sons are descended, 

State craft — eloquence — chivalry, happily blended; 

Of a fair land they are the proud lords: 

What they won with their rifles they will keep with their swords. 

Her daughters are the fairest the sun shines on, 
Famed for duty and beauty in history and song; 
Womanly women ! to our hearts the more dear. 
They will perpetuate the race of the bold Cavalier. 

Here the sun wooes the heart to softest delight, 
The moon and the stars emparadise the night, 
Her rivers and mountains enrapture the soul, 
Her woodlands and meadows are the Eden of old. 

When through wandering over the earth, 

Carry me back to Kentucky, the land of my birth; 

On her fair bosom pillow my head. 

Peacefully I will slumber vnth loved ones long dead. 

There the laverock will welcome the day at the dawning. 
The mavis will welcome the night at the gloaming. 
The sun will warm the green sod on my breast. 
The stars will watch over me while sweetly I rest. 

36 



THE KENTUCKY HOME-COMING OF 1906 

I. 

Return children of Kentucky who have wandered far and wide. 
Return to your mother and the family fireside; 
Long years your chairs are vacant and time has gone so slow, 
Return children of Kentucky, let's renew our youth once more. 

II. 

It will be a joyful meeting, 
Once again we will be greeting; 
We will feast and we will frolic, 
We will drink a Kentucky julep. 
We will talk and we will sing, 
We will cut the pigeon-wing, 
We will laugh and we will cry. 
We will be happy ere we die. 

III. 
Though father, mother and children are gone, 
We will visit the house where we were born. 
And each loved spot to memory dear 
Of which we've dreamed full many a year: 
The orchard, the meadow, the sparkling spring. 
The wildwood where we used to swing. 
The old church where we heard the preacher. 
The schoolhouse where we feared the teacher; 
E*en the stone in the path to school. 
Where oft we stumped our toes in dool, 

37 



At which then we roundly swore, 
But which now we almost adore. 

^^ e'll go to the grave where Mother sleeps- 
Where still the waging >s-illow weeps, 

And devoutly kneeling there 

Once more repeat that holy prayer: 

"Now I lay me do^^•n to sleep, 

I pray the Lord my soul to keep." 

"\^'^ch at her knee us boys she taught. 

But which, eJas! we've almost forgot. 

rv. 

If you dwell in the cit>-'s ceaseless din, 

Or in the quiet of the lovely glen, 

Or where the prairie flower blooms 

And fills the air with sweet perfumes. 

Or where the Rockies lift on high 

Their hoar>' heads into the sky, 

Or if you've strayed along the Rio Grande. 

Or on the Pacific's golden strand. 

Or to Alaska's frozen shore, 

Oi where Florida's flowers ever blow — 

Where'er you roam, where'er you be, 

On the land or on the sea, 

in this year of jubilee 

Return! return! to the old roof-tree — 

A Kentucky welcome is waiting for thee. 

38 



THE JOURNEY TO THE SEA 

The next afternoon before leaving the old town, I strolled 
down to take a last look at the river, where we boys had 
passed so many glorious hours. While I sat alone on the bank, 
thinking many thoughts, a boating party glided from out the 
shadow of a beetling cliff. I wrote and gave the young ladies 
the lines below, and walked away with a heavy heart: 

Dear girls, how merrily you glide. 

Your boat just launched on life's young tide! 

Many long years may it be 

Ere your barque finds the sea. 

Enjoy these pleasures in life's morn. 
Others will come when you are gone; 
May the tide no rougher be 
In your journey to the sea. 

In these same waters, years ago I 
I fished and swam and pulled the oar; 
But those joys are past for me, 
I have almost reached the sea. 

We boys who once sported there 
Have wandered dowTi the tide afar ; 
Some still battle in life's melee. 
More lie sleeping in the sea. 

39 



Then our ambition was sublime, 
The steep of fame we'd boldly climb, 
And our names immortal be — 
Noli), lo! alas, the sea! the sea! 

Adieu, adieu, my beautiful river. 
Now I leave thee, oh, forever; 
All forgotten I shall be 
When I lie sleeping in the sea. 



40 



DIVIDE BY TWO 

Divide human hopes and fears by two, 
The result will prove the figures true; 
Half your fears you'll never try. 
Half your hopes are doomed to die. 

By success be not elated. 
Nor by failure much abated; 
At success detraction cries. 
Failure teaches us to be wise. 

In this muddled world of care. 
Believe only the half you hear; 
Nearer the truth you'll ever be 
If you doubt half you see. 

The fair maiden's rosy blush 
Is but the deadly hectic flush; 
The worm is in the flower's petal — 
Death shadows all things mortal. 

All laughter is half a cry, 
Intense pleasure breaths a sigh; 
After exaltation comes depression: 
Divide by two to learn life's lesson. 

Profane history is half a lie, 
Making its heroes saints on high. 
Painting its victims spirits fell, 
And sending them to lowest hell. 

41 



A drop of ink makes a hero. 
And another gives a Nero; 
But the Nero is half a hero, 
And the hero is half a Nero. 

Immortal Bruce ! an assassin red ! 
At the alter stabs the Comyn dead; 
Righteous Robespierre! incarnate demon! 
Quits the Bench because the law's inhuman. 

Man! Strange mixture of good ynd evil. 
Sometimes saint, sometimes devil — 
Now a tyrant, now a slave. 
Half a coward, half a brave. 

His good and bad all interwoven, 
Head all halo'd, feet all cloven. 
Both man and beast — it is no matter — 
He is our own dear brother Satyr. 

We will love him for his mother, 
We'll forgive him, he's our brother; 
His virtues and vices divided by two. 
And strike his balance good and true. 



42 



SUNRISE. 

Alectryon claps his wings and thrice salutes the dawn; 
Night-birds of evil fly in flocks to the caverns of the West; 
Aurora, herald of the coming day, flushes the rose-red Orient, 
And flings wide the ivory gates of Morn; 
Golden-haired Apollo, in the blazing chariot of the Sun, 
Drives his fiery steeds up the Eastern sky: 
The Sun hath risen! 

All nature awakes — man, beast and bird. 
Joining in one universal chorus. 
Sing praises to the great God of day, 
Giver of light, heat, life and every blessing. 



DAWN 

Dawn is the hour of all the twent3'-four 

When the creature the Creator can best adore. 



43 



YE GRAND OLD TREES ON BROOKWOOD 
LAWN 

Ye grand old trees on Brookwood lawn. 
Remnant of a vast forest gone, 
Where mastadon, buffalo, bear erst did roam 
And the Redman had his wigwam home. 
Ye have weathered many a storm! 
Indian, hunter, farmer have come and gone. 
Still unscathed ye flourish on 
Clothed in Nature's living green. 
The fairest woodland ever seen. 

Here Susie and I built our home. 

Here many happy years have flown. 

Here our children grew, and romped, and played 

Without a care in thy grateful shade ; 

In yon cool and shady bower 

Lovers have beguiled the fleeting hour; 

Beneath yon wide-spreading tulip, 

Kentucky Colonels have sipped the julep. 

Puffed the soothing Havana smoke. 

Cracked many a merry joke. 

While they admired the horses on parade, 

As proudly thy step in thy shade. 

Showing their beauty, paces and speed 

44 



And the purity of their patrician breed. 
In this wide Manor Hall, 
Open alike to great and small. 
Friends have met in converse sweet, 
And parted nevermore to meet! 

Soon we, too, must go. 

As others have come and gone before. 

Stranger! when you come succeeding me, 

Spare, oh kindly spare each tree; 

Each to me is doubly dear. 

Fondly cherished many a year ; 

For when carking cares with the moiling day have fled, 

And the quiet stars crown each leafy head. 

The Spirit of the Grove, as to the Druids of old. 

Hath whispered many mystic secrets to my soul. 



45 



PEDIGREES AND COATS OF ARMS. 

I. 

You may have heard tell of Colonel OTell, 

Who struck it rich in a big oil well? 

A gentleman he of the highest degree. 

And the cream of the bon-ton his family; 

To buy his "coat of arms*' had cost him whole lots. 

So he stamped it on his coach, his plate, even his pots; 

His pedigee, made to order by a skilled expert, 

Showed him created of the noblest dirt. 

Descended from no less a hero in lineal turn 

Than Robert De Felton, slain at Bannockburn. 

In splendor he lived in a fine stone front. 

And horses he had for the coach and the hunt ; 

His balls and his routs and his daughter's new gown 

Were the envy of all and the talk of the town. 

And all "society" was in the greatest of glee 

Whenever requested to partake of his tea, 

For it was a sure test, no matter who wondered. 

That the invited was one of the "Four Hundred." 

II. 

But often — when drinking — I've heard Flannagan tell. 
How in old Dublin, when a boy, he played with O'Fell; 
"Didn't he live in the alley joust over the way? 
His fayther was a washerwoman and his mayther drove a dray. 

46 



And Mistress O'Fell, when a maiden, lived in Berlin, 
A-selling her fish and a-swearing like sin! 
She vasn't so tall up, but more vider out. 
Not pretty for much, but hell for stout. 

III. 

!f he who so proudly boasts of his pedigree 
Will but look, he's sure to see 
Some scoundrel of low degree 
Hanging by a rope in his ancestral tree. 

IV. 

In this land of the free and home of the brave. 

Where no man is master and no man is slave. 

The honest are the noble and the brave are the free. 

And this is enough for "arms" and "pedigree;" 

For a man may be man! whatever his station. 

It is the virtue of her sons gives rank to a nation. 



47 



PERSONALS 

I. 

In the Sunday paper the "personal" gabble 
Is more read than the Holy Bible; 
Saint and sinner, belle and beau, 
Study the "personals" o'er and o'er. 
As if the world and its fate 
Depended upon our little great. 
Away with Manilla, or any great battle, 
Give us idle gossip, personal tattle. 
When Mr. Donkey comes to town, 
When Miss Flunkey wears a new gown. 

This wild itching for cheap notoriety 

Is the bane of all society; 

True, Dan'l Boone did almost faint 

To see his name in good black print, 

But he'd killed Indians and the bear — 

You? have looked the owl and scared a hare. 

II. 

In the personals, displayed, you'll see 
Where Miss Poodle gave a great tea; 
A flower and a sandwich the bill of fare. 
And all half starved who dined there. 
No matter for that — they cut a great caper. 
Their names emblazoned in Sunday's paper. 

48 



III. 

"Miss Sally Slouch, the divinely fair. 

In her garden this morning took the air;" 

Never seriously ill, there is no question — 

Merely indisposed from indigestion; 

A garden walk and a laxative lotion 

Have quite restored her to a lover's devotion. 

IV. 

"Major Highliver, by much work oppressed. 
Has gone to the springs for long needed rest:" 
Soaked with licker, through and through. 
He has hurried away to cool his flue. 

"From the springs the Major has returned. 
After a rest so richly earned." 
Again to stuffing, again to booze. 
Again the big liver, again the red nose. 

V. 

"Colonel Bonepart Noodles is to be wedded," 
So the personal in the papers is headed. 

Later — "Colonel Noodles to Miss Boodles is married, 
So again all the papers are harried. 

"Colonel and Mrs. Noodles are in Boston, 
Seeing the sights and having their fun." 

"Colonel and Mrs. Noodles are now 'at home/ 
To friends at No, 400 Allee Shinbone." 

49 



Four limes the papers notice this one great event. 
It hasn't cost the Colonel a demd red cent; 
Now "personals'* will have seven month rest, 
Till the pair with a ten-pound baby is blessed. 

VL 

And so it goes, round and round — 
The wise, the fool and the clown, 
Beau and belle, sinner and saint, 
Those have conquered, those that ha'n't. 
From the old man to the child. 
Somebodies, nobodies, all are wild, 
And would gladly go to — well! 
To see their names in "personal." 



50 



THE THREAD OF LIFE 

What can be avoided rvhcse end is purposed by the Mighty 
Cods? — Julius Caesar, Act II, Scene 2. 

I. 
The Fates are sisters three, 
Tho differing much in degree. 
All unavoidable is their decree. 

II. 

Lovely Clotho, divinely fair, 

Beautious face and sunny hair. 

Bright and fresh as dewy dawn. 

Her pure life just in its morn; 

Sweetly singing she spins the golden thread. 

And over us her smiles are shed; 

Then life is one unceasing joy. 

Without a sorrow to alloy. 

in. 

Lachesis, older and of queenly grace. 
Raven hair and classic face, 
Now takes the mystic strand 
And with deft and cunning hand 
Many a checkered color spins 
Of noble deeds and darkest sins. 
Pain and pleasure, smiles and tears. 
Peace and strife, hopes and fears. 

51 



IV. 

Absorbed with our joys and cares. 
Heedless of Atropos and her shears, 
A sworn foe to mortal man. 
With cruel and treacherous hand 
She slyly snips the slender thread- 
All is over: we are dead. 



5;^ 



ODE TO THE SUN 

Thou bright source of all things good. 
Who giveth us light, heat and life. 
And maketh the earth teem with blessings. 
We lift our souls in gratitude to thee. 

For countless ages the generations 
0^ man have come and gone, thanking thee 
For thy goodness: Yet it abideth still, as when 
Thou first began thy shining course thro space. 

Thou didst banish Night; bring order out of Chaos; 

Destroy the monster Python; and set the Seasons on their 

courses ; 
Frozen Winter melts in thy warm embrace; 
Young Spring, kirtled in flowers, 
To thee sings her maiden song of love; 
The hosts of leafy Summer, rife with joyous life, 
h: swelling chorus sing thy praise; 
And in thy honor Autumn pours from 
Cornucopia golden showers of plenty 
Upon thy happy, grateful children. 

Many worship thee as God, thou'rt but His creature-symbol. 
One of myriad Suns coursing ever onward thro space. 
Whose music of the spheres glorifies 

53 



The good Creator of the Universe — 

The omnipotent, omnipresent, infinite, eternal. 

Without beginning or ending and benevolent. 



54 



TO THE GODDESS FORTUNE 

Fortune! thou fair, false, spiteful quean, 
Hadst thou but smiled it might have been! 
But thy malice hath pursued me ever. 
Defeating always each high endeavor. 

Full well I know without thy favor 

In vain we toil and moil and labor. 

But repine and whine I will never. 

Or, like poor Tennahill,* jump in the river. 

To Hades with thee, thou false strumpet! 

Let fame proclaim some other name 

In thy blarsted, blooming trumpet. 



*We know too late that the world lost some beautiful lyrics when the pub- 
lisher declined to print them, and this young heart-broken Scotchman burned 
them and committed suicide. 



55 



THEY WILL MISS ME WHEN I'M GONE 

In the quiet evening-tide, 

By the family fireside, 

When every chair is filled but one: 

They w^ill miss me when I'm gone. 

When the day is overcast 
And troubles blow thick and fast. 
When to advise there is not one: 
They will miss me when I'm gone. 

All unused to storm and strife. 
Who will guard that sunny, tender life 
When the days grow old and lone? 
She will miss me when I'm gone. 
Oh! she will miss me when I'm gone! 



56 



ROBBIE BURNS 

I. 

Who wants a song for a drinking bout? 

Robbie Burns has writ it out; 

Who wants an epitaph for a scoundrel? 

Robbie Burns has penned the roundel; 

A louse upon my ladies' bonnet 

Is theme to him for a sonnet; 

A mouse upturned in the furrow 

Fills his muse with heartfelt sorrow; 

A wounded hare limping by 

Makes the reader almost cry; 

Tarn O'Shanter is a warning 

To husbands out till almost morning; 

Better far thro life to go 

Like John Anderson, my Jo. 

A few lines to his old mare, Maggie, 

Makes her immortal, tho stiff and shaggy; 

The two dogs will let you know. 

The story of the rich and poor; 

His advice to a youthful friend 

Might well be heeded by older men, 

In tattling moments we oft impart 

Gossip that wounds many a heart. 

With empty purse and a scolding \vife 

He'll teach you how to enjoy life; 

He can tell the heart's great story, 

.S7 



Painting le grande passion in its glory; 
From lauding a queen to clouting a kettle. 
From cuddlin' his kimmer to teething a heckle- 
All things in life he can glorify 
With poetic fire from on high. 

II. 

How well you know, O, Robbie Burns, 
The devious path with all its turns; 
Hawk! to Dr. Hornbook your rebuke 
Makes decent bodies almost puke; 
When you murder hate by field and flood 
I see little in you that is good. 
Boozie old sinner, hardened and hoary. 
You'll spend a spell in purgatory. 
And old Clootie'll make you know 
Whether the moon has three horns or four. 

But— 
Because of the cotter's prayer and Mary in Heaven, 
All your sins have been forgiven; 
Long ago you are prayed into glory 
By millions of hearts who read your story. 

III. 
Poor Robbie Burns, my heart does bleed, 
To see him dying in neglected need. 
While fatted pigs in wealth wallow. 
Genius starves in wretched squalor; 

58 



Bitter adversity could not suppress 
The poetic fires in his breast. 
Toiling thro life like a slave, 
Its richest gems the world he gave ; 
Contented wi little and canty with more. 
He is the poet of the poor. 
The great and learned must love him too. 
He writes so much that's wise and true. 
Other poets have tuned the lyre. 
But none so touch the heart with fire: 
Tent him well, my dear young man, 
And the human heart you'll learn to scan. 



59 



PERRY MONEY 

[A Born Rhymer.] 
I. 
Here's to dear old Perry Money, 
He was rich, rare and funny; 
He could make a happy rhyme 
On anything at any time; 
Sometimes witty, oft sublime. 
Mostly humorous, always sunny. 
Ever sweet as Hybla honey. 
Truly, he spent his life a rhyming. 
And when he died he went a-climbing 
Up the golden stairs, still a-rhyming. 

He always voted the Democratic ticket, 
Down in rhyme his vote he'd stick it. 
And for each candidate's name 
He always had a witty rhyme. 

He listed his horses, cows and swine 
Each by name and all in rhyme; 
But his taxes he never paid. 
Except with rhymes, his stock in trade. 

So here's to Uncle Perry, 
Always cheery, always merry. 
Tho he never had any money. 
Always funny, always sunny. 
Was merry, sunny Perry Money. 

60 



II. 

Out among the lovely Green county hills, 

Where all are happy and life hath no ills. 

Far down the glen beside the murmuring stream, 

Where he was wont to stroll and dream. 

The owl sings her watch-song in his cabin home, 

And his unmarked grave with briars is overgrown. 

His gentle spirit has fled to unknown climes. 
Relentless Fate hath left us none of his rhymes. 
The places that knew him, knov/ him not — 
Gone and forgot! — the common lot 
Of empires, kings and thrones. 
Tyres, Ninevahs and Babylons; 
Civilizations that rose and have fallen. 
And left no trace but a broken column. 

III. 

And yet! by St. Jago! if alive. 
Old Perry never a grunt would give; 
He'd laugh at all — devouring Time, 
And flaunt him with a merry rhyme; 
He'd have his say and live his day. 
Take his dram and make his rhyme. 
Defying both Fate and Time 
With Epicurian philosophy sublime. 



61 



THE REVEREND RACCOON JOHN SMITH 

Brother Raccoon John is a mighty teacher 

Of doctrines quaint and rare; 
The like o' him there's no such preacher 

In the land, far or near. 

Long, lank, lean with voice o' thunder 

He roars and rumbles; 
The gaping crowd stares in blank wonder 

And to his racket tumbles. 

His creed he proves it is the best 

By pounding and by thumping; 
And each point he clinches fast 

By stomping and by jumping. 

Brass for brains, or lungs for logic, seldom gains 

Those who think and ponder. 
But sounding brass is better than brains 

To those who gape and wonder. 



■62 



LYCURGUS SMITH 

Here Lycurgus once in glory lived. 
No laws to any did he give, 
But on cattle, sheep and swine 
His judgment was an oracle divine. 

No one ever passed the road. 
But "Curg" must stop him for a word; 
His heart and home were open as day, 
Nor friend, nor beggar hungry went away. 

O, but he could "carve de 'possum" 
When sweet potatoes around it blossom, 
And seasoned with his wit and beer 
Nothing in life could give more cheer. 

He helped the orphan and the poor 
And at hypocracy roundly swore; 
He'd pull his coat off for a friend. 
And his last dollar freely spend. 

In politics he was a power. 
Many a candidate bemoaned the hour 
When he marched up to the polls 
Leading battallions of poor souls. 

63 



The game cock was his special pride, 
A mongrel he could ne'er abide; 
And in many a hard tought main 
He proved the valor ot his strain. 

At Sunday school he was no teacher, 

But he could preach just like the preacher; 

And no speaker he ever heard 

But he could mimic, word for word. 

Of anecdote he had a fund. 
Unceasing humor, and oft a pun. 
For Mother Wit none was quicker; 
And if tell I must — he loved his licker. 

Little children were his delight. 
For him they'd sing, or dance, or fight; 
And when the year had many a wrinkle 
He'd visit them as old Kriss Kringle. 

Christmas just before he died. 
From a sick bed he feebly hied 
To play Kriss Kringle one time more 
Before he left this mortal shore. 

"Children, Kris will come no more. 
He is summoned and must go;" 

64 



(And in tones that made them cry) : 
"Now I bid you all bood-bye. 
Poor old Kris is sad and lone — 
Dont forget him when he's gene.'' 

Of his life such is the simple story, 
I pray he hasn't gone to purgatory; 
But e'en old Hornie he'd so charm, 
He'd ne'er find heart to do him harm. 

He loved his mother with sublime devotion, 
Tho 'tisn't orthodox, I have a notion 
The Great Judge'll be a little blind 
To faults of one so noble and so kind. 

No more! we'll stir the social toddy 
With that big, warm-hearted body. 
And talk of farmin'. trusts and cattle 
And how the red cock won his battle. 

The weeds are growing in the gate. 
The bachelor's home is desolate. 
His name is fading from the earth. 
My life has lost much of its mirth. 



65 



SLIMY SLICK, ATTORNEY AT LAW 
I. 

HaiL' old Barebones, thou'st caught Slimy Slick 

Napping at last! 

Tent well ye grip 'im fast, 
Or, smart's ye are, he'll play his *possum trick. 

And slip away, 

Alack-a-day ! 

IL 

Lucky day! when he died, 
Hoof and horn, tail and hide. 

Sure, 'tis no fake? 

Yes, dead beyond mistake. 

in. 

Buried in congenial dirt, slimy and cold. 
Old Hornie searched him for his soul — 

None he found 

In the hound; 
Next grave-worms bored for his brain. 
If, perchance, a lunch they might obtain — 

The like was never known, 

His skull was solid bone! 

66 



Then they explored his heart to the bottom 
And found it both hollow and rotten ; 

His body stunk 

Like a skunk: 
Disgusted! the worms crawled away. 
Leaving it to mould in slow decay. 

IV. 

And thus this sneaking little whelp 
Fooled e'en the devil himself. 
Cozened the poor while he lived. 
And cheated the worms in his grave: 

But Death tricked 'im. 

And nicked 'im. 

V. 

Now! honest lawyers will.be blessed. 

Each loving the other 

As a brother; 
And from fraud and trickery have a rest, 

With this shyster 

No more to pester. 



67 



My Dear Phil: 

Talk of home without a mother, 

Talk of the lad sacked by his lover; 

What of the fellow, just half sober. 

Who needs "one drink more" to tide him over? 

"Welcome as sunshine to birds and to flowers," 
Or spring in the desert to the famished for hours, 
"Welcome as first sight of land to roamer by sea," 
Was your big-bellied bottle to the Major and me. 

Charlotta and Mary cooled it v/ith ice. 
Sweetened with sugar and we drank in a trice; 
But one thing was wanting — you kind body» 
To stir with us the social toddy. 

You may not be a saint. 
But I'm sure you're a charmer. 
For you're so well acquaint 
How to please a farmer. 

Thankfully yours, 



68 



MY OWN SWEET COUSIN 
My own sweet cousin. 
My favorite of forty dozen, 
I thank you for the licker; 
It makes my heart beat quicker 
And calls up many a story 
Of days old and hoary! 
Of your mother and her mother, 
My mother and her brother. 
Grandmother and grandfather Adam, toi 
And the licker he used to brew ; 
For of all the Campbell clan 
Now multiplied in the land. 
Love most strongly binds 
Our two noble lines; 
And from the very go 
It has ever been so, 
And may continue to be 
Through all eternity. 

They say I'm like Uncle Jimmy gone. 
Because I love the demijohn. 
And that I'll drink a peck. 
And catch it in the neck, 
And some day go hence 
By a fall off the fence. 
Like our dear old Uncle Jimmy, 
Who fondly loved his demmy. 
69 



But of all the Campbell clan 
(By whom licker's under ban), 
You and I alone appreciate 
The deft there is to Fate 
In the dear old rusty demmy 
Of dear old Uncle Jimmy. 

Lawton dies in glorious battle. 
Praised like any fine beef cattle, 
But the world's triumphant clatter 
To Uncle Jimmy didn't matter, 
About fame he never worried. 
In business he never hurried ; 
Taking events as they come. 
Never sad and never glum. 
Always merry, ne'er forlorn. 
Ever jolly in his corn; 
For a philosopher was he 
Of the highest degree. 
And this precept he left 
To his friends all bereft: 

*'Enioy life while you may. 

It is a brief play ; 

Never bother about fame, 

It is merely a name, 

For oblivion swallows all. 

The great and the small.'* 



70 



And thus lived our Uncle Jimmy, 

Truly loving his dear demmy. 

So here's to dear Nancy, 

The cousin I most fancy; 

And here's to her demmy 

For the sake of Uncle Jimmy; 

For only she and I 

(Being judges of rye) 

Of all the Campbell clan 

Can appreciate a man 

Like dear old Uncle Jimmy* 

With his glorious old demmy. 

Thankfully yours, 
Brookw^ood, Christmas night, 1 899. 



• Dear old Uncle Jimmy ! A canny Scot was he. At the distance of 50 
years I still see his merry, twinkling eyes. He had strolled out on his farm 
where the negroes were at work, and was seated on the fence indulging a thought 
and cogitating an idea, when the rail turned, he fell backward, broke his neck, 
and so shuffled off this mortal coil. Only occasionally he got glorious o'er all 
the ills of life victorious. His line is extinct. Green grow the grass aboon him 
He was the joUiest man of all the Campbell clan. 



71 



BUNGLE BOO-LOO. A JUNGLE KING 

Dear Nancy: 

It was a wild night ; 
The winter wind was screaming down the blast. 
The Old Year was dying! dying hard and fast; 
The Blizzard was fiercely weaving his sleety shroud 
And, striving for the Old Man's Soul, Demons were howling 

loud. 
Before the fire I sat remorseful, the Devil's blue. 
Raging above the storm, eager to seize me too. 

No man of woman born 

Was ever so forlorn. 

And of a whole city full 

None was so pitiful — 

When, lo! I heard a tapping! 

A low, distinct, spirit rapping 

At my den door; 

Then with a double rap. 

In stalked your Jug o' Zapp ! ! 

A merry little chap. 

The which I hastened to tap. 

Of horrors quite relieved. 

I "hit it" once — perhaps twice — 
Perchance it was thrice: 
For sure I don't know — 
Maybe it was four: 

72 



At that let it go, 

Since in this world of woe 

Things whirl about so 

A feller can't always know 

Whether he's on his head or on his toe. 

Or the seat of his pants is behind or before ; 

But of this I am sure. 

From the lowest of the poor, 

I am now a King of Jungle fame 

And Bungle Boo-loo is my name! 

*'I have scores of slaves of every size 

To fan my brow and catch the flies;" 

Thousands of hogs, just as many cattle. 

Pocket full o' chink, lord ! you orter hear it rattle ; 

My little speckle hen which a setting would go, 

Now lays three eggs a day, on Sunday lays four; 

My old gray mar, white as any flour. 

Carries me one hundred forty miles every other hour, 

The further she goes she gets all the quicker. 

She never covers a mile but she gives a nicker; 

And when I hear her nicker I take a drink of licker. 

So hurly burly, boil and bubble, 

Send all trubble to de debble; 

Be a Jungle, Bungle Boo-loo King, 

And gaily cut the pigeon-wing. 

For Christmas come but once a year. 



Cousin Nancy, thanks to you, 
And to Cousin Charlie, too; 
For of a moping beggar tame, 
You've made a King of Jungle fame. 

Bungle Boo-loo. 
December 25, 1903 (midnight). 



74 



Brookwood. Nov. 14, 1911 

Dear Nancy; 

This world is false and hollow. 

But may the de'il take me 

If ever I forsake ye 

As long's you've got a dollar; 

I'd think none the less of you 

Had you a million or two ; 

// you have but half that sum. 

Command me always, late or soon: 

I have ever been your friend. 

Hoping to be remembered at the end. 

In the matter of your will 

(Trusting you've the same intention still) 

I would suggest a restriction 

For your very kind reflection. 

If to me land you leave it, 
I'll be dem'd if I'll have it 
I'd know that you gave it 
To make me work and slave it. 

In your testamentary election 
I could make no objection 
To a bunch of Government bonds 
With their semi-annual coupons: 
They would give me leisure 
To clip the coupons at pleasure, 

75 



And convert them into gold 
To buy masses for ^our soul. 

But according to your creed, 
No masses will you need; 
Therefore nothing under the skies 
Would be so highly prized 
As the dear old rusty demmy 
Of dear old Uncle Jimmy, 
Filled with "ten-year-old" 
For the good of my soul. 

While nothing could console me, 

Yet it would condole me 

And give some temporary relief 

To my incurable grief. 

It would be a precious keepsake. 

Reminder of toddies we used to take; 

Whenever I'd be a-drinking 

'Twould of you I'd be a-thinking; 

And to ease my heart-ache. 

And for your dear sake, 

I'd have a little wake 

About three times a day. 
So never mind the land, the bonds or the money. 
But dont forget the Bourbon and a little brandy and 
honey. 

Yours hoping, 

76 



HON. G. ALLISON HOLLAND 

Lexington, Ky. 
My Dear Allison : 

In good old Henry prudish Temperance is at the helm 

And jolly John Barleycorn is banished the realm; 

The kindly mint longer refuses to grow 

And with its fragrance we're blessed no more; 

All are grown so unco nice 

That even Winter denies us ice ; 

Our thoroughbreds we may not run. 

And we dare not kiss a girl in fun; 

Friend meets friend, they pass the day 

And each goes on his weary way; 

The days drag the dull hours along 

And the nights are void of frolic and song ; 

No more the heart bubbles over 

As in the days when we lived in clover; 

A melancholy gloom pervades us all 

As if the Plague had spread its pall; 

We're driven to coca-cola and malt mead. 

But neither gives us any speed; 

In sorrow and dool we mourn the day 

When generous old Bourbon was voted away. 

In the Julep you pledge me once again. 

And of slumbering thoughts awake a busy train; 

I sigh for the days to memory dear 



And all unbidden comes a tear. 
Whatever fate may betide me. 
Nothing, dear friend, can divide me 
From the memory of those vanished "days 
Olden and golden and radiant with rays." 

I thank you kindly for your poetical letter; 
I'll write you otherwise when I feel better; 
I should love to reciprocate your toast. 
But I scorn to insult you with the ghost 
Of dear old John Barleycorn, 
So yours truly, but all forlorn. 



78 



UNCLE WASH 

Brookwood, Oct. 15. 1909. 
Col. Polk Miller, 

Richmond, Va. 

My Dear Colonel: I couldn't sleep last night, and as I 
tossed I got to thinking about Uncle Wash, my shattered idol; 
hence these. I'm afraid I spoke too harshly of him when I 
saw you last. Of course, I knew that he and most darkies 
would steal in a small way, but to be so damnably caught with 
his house full of plunder stolen for him by his young rogues 
was too provoking. I am over the shock now, and I trust the 
recording angel, with a tear, has blotted out all charges against 
him. 

I. 

Uncle Wash was old Marster's favorite slave, 
Polite and proud as a Virginia cavalier. 
But for all that he was a great knave. 
What a Fagin he was we now have to hear. 

II. 

He rous-ed up his rogues afore de broke o' day. 
He rous-ed up his rogues an' to dem he did say: 
Chicken on de roos' and fat am de goose. 
Seize 'um by de neck and doan you let 'um loose ; 
Turkey in de tree a roosin' berry high. 
Pull him might' easy or he'll riz and fly; 

79 



Pig in de pen fat as he can waller, 

He's de sweetest meat nigger eber swaller; 

Slip up easy, grab 'im by de heel, 

Knock *im in de head and doan you let 'im squeal ; 

When you's cocht 'em all fotch 'um to me, 

We'll hab a feast and a jubilee; 

For ole marster he's gond away 

And we niggers am a-gwine to play. 

III. 

I is axed all de nabers fer ter-morrer night 
(Get your razers ready, dar mout be a fight). 
Ole Aunt Dinah she'll mind he griddle, 
Ole Uncle Ned he'll play de fiddle. 
And we'll dance all de night 
Till de broad day light. 

So when you's cocht 'um all fotch 'um to me. 
We'll hab a dance and a jubilee. 

IV. 

Poor Uncle Wash! his jubilees are o'er. 

He has crossed the dark river to the other shore; 

He was so polite, so gentle and so kind. 

To his faults we'll be a little blind; 

For all the darkeys very justly feel. 

From ole Marster 'tis no harm to steal. 



80 



VOLUNTEER STAR— PANDO 

Volunteer Star No. 1614, foaled 1873, died about 1894. 
is buried on Brookwood Farm at the bottom of the garden 
under an apple tree and close to the fence and public highway, 
so his grave can not be plowed over. 

In the same grave is buried poor little Pando, a beautiful 
Fox-terrier of the greatest intelligence and sweetest disposition. 
Fighting to the last he was killed by Mike, four times his 
weight, a brute bulldog, kept at the horse barn. His devotion 
to me passes all description. I have never been able to frame 
an epitaph that can do justice to his worth, or express my sor- 
row. A tablet covers their grave on which this is inscribed: 

Volunteer Star No. 1614 

SIRE OF 

Alaric record 2.22% 

Bethlehem Star record 2.20% 

Valkyr— record 2.19%; 2.25 in 9th heat; 
2:14 European record ; 

And Other Trotters 

Of patrician breed. 
And marvellous speed; 
Of beauty rare, 
A horse beyond compare. 

81 



His get proclaim 

His lasting fame. 

Sleep well ! friend of mine, 

The noblest of all thy kind. 

With aches, pains, curses and groans. 
Perish the vandal who disturbs his bones. 

*p 't' '^ 

Pando ! 

Sorrow is mute. 



82 



CAPTAIN JACK 

(Adapted from one of Dryden's tales from Chaucer, en- 
titled, "The Cock and the Fox.") 

I. 
Capt. Jack was as game a little cock 
As ever in lusty pride led forth his flock; 
His glittering plumage was black as a crow. 
Except his crest was white as Alpine snow; 
Of the black, white-crested Polish breed. 
And from the Mormans he took his creed. 

II. 

This gallant cock, for solace of his life. 
Five misses had, besides his lawful wife. 
He swaggered like a Lord about his hall. 
And his six wives came running at his call. 
Often he feathered them in wanton sport 
And crowed defiance from his lusty throat. 

III. 
He guarded his walk with jealous care 
And if amorous cocks intruded there 
He'd scratch and peck and gaff and swear 
Until their feathers filled the air; 
And when beaten they would flying go, 
He'd clap his wings, and crow, and crow. 

83 



IV. 

At my study window in a maple tree 

He kept his harem for years quite three, 

There he slept, his wives on either side. 

Snuggled close as a new-made bride. 

At eleven he'd clap his wings and crow. 

Warning me 'twas time to bed to go; 

At twelve, if the lights were not out, 

Thrice his shrill clarion would ring out; 

At one he'd clap and crow and crow 

Until, distracted with his din, I'd read no more.* 

V. 

One morning, 'neath the tree, little Jack lay dead, 
Cold his body, low his crested head. 
His conquests, glories, pride and pleasure. 
Like great Caesar's, shrunk to this little measure ! 

VI. 

In sorrow I buried him by Star and Pando, 
Who, with many friends! are gone before; 
Now my nightly vigils alone I keep. 
Yet oft in dreams I hear him while I sleep. 



^Literally true; he would crow with great regularity at the hours stated. 



5?4 



WHY JOSTLE A BROTHER 

Why should you jostle a brother? 
We are all journeying together. 
Rich and poor, free and slave. 
Onward to the equal grave. 

Lend him rather a helping hand, 
Lighten his burden if you can; 
It will cheer him on his road 
And make you more akin to God. 

A trifle tossed to a beggar, 
A kindly word to even a "nigger" 
Will make your heart all the bigger, 
Tho you your millions swagger. 



85 



ANDY JACKSON AND THE OLD TAVERN AT 
NEW CASTLE. KY. 

Many inn-keepers have passed and gone. 
Yet Andy Jackson still lingers on; 
Fifty years at the same old stand, 
The finest waiter ip all the land. 

Obliging, cheerful and always handy 
None can serve you quite like Andy; 
His skin is black, but his soul is white, 
No Kentucky gentleman is more polite. 

Lawyers have come and lawyers have gone! 

How many have you waited on? 

What a list of forgotten dead 

You can conjure from your head! 

And still you bravely jog along 

As if to die you were not born. 

It's Andy this and it's Andy that. 
Here and there he trots pit-a-pat; 
Cards run bad and lawyers get dry — 
**Hurry, Andy! pray be spry!" 

He's as honest as "Honest old Abe," 
But says his dram he's "bound to hab;" 
So, when lawyers are wrangling in court 

86 



About homicide, trespass and tort. 
He boldly opens each one's grip. 
Says a toast and takes a nip.* 

In all the town there's none like Andy, 
With the sisters he's polite and handy; 
Ye pick-a-ninnies love him as your mother, 
For ought you know he is your father. 

Andy! at you I've often fussed. 
Railed, stormed and almost cussed. 
Sometimes because you were not quicker. 
Sometimes because you drank my licker ; 
At your expense cracked many a joke. 
But nothing has ever our friendship broke. 

May we live for many a year 

And still be spared for many jowers. 

If you go first, I will drop a tear 

On your grave, and place some flowers. 



* Not in the sense of stealing, for we allow Andy to help himself when- 
ever, like Sara Gamp, he feels so " dispoged." 



87 



THERE'LL BE HELL IN HELL TONIGHT 

(Some twenty years ago in the town of F , two 

gossiping shrews died the same night; hence these:) 

There'll be hell in hell tonight: 

Old Jenny and old Lou, 

The finest wildcats ever grew, 
Will quarrel, claw and fight, 
And there'll be hell in hell tonight. 

Old Hornie! with ye I'm not well acquainted, 
I'm sure ye're better than ye' re painted; 

In a friendly way let me say 

Ye've reigned and ruled your day: 

Abdicate and fly away! 

Old Jenny and old Lou, 

The finest wildcats ever grew. 

Will quarrel, claw and fight. 

Envy, hate and back-bite, 
And raise more hell in hell a minute 
Than ye in all the ages ye have run it. 



DEATH 

Skulls, bones, coffins and worms paralyze 

The cowherd while he lives, the catiff when he dies; 

Yet death is just as natural as birth. 

So 'tis ordained by the Creator of earth: 

From dust we come, to dust return, 

A flower springs from a just man's urn; 

But not the soul in the grave we leave it — 

It returns to God who gave it. 

Grieve not for me with too much weeping, 
I 2im not dead, but only sleeping; 
Drop a tear, plant a rose on my breast. 
Return to the world, leave me to rest ; 
I would not cloud thy day with sorrow. 
We'll meet over there on the morrow. 



IMPROVIDENCE 

If it costs us no labor we prize it very low, 

If it comes easy, easy 'twill go. 

We will live high and the money will fly. 

For we never miss the water till the well runs dry. 



HERE LIES J. G. 

As pious a scoundrel as ever lived. 
His long prayers no one believed; 
Whence he came none could tell. 
Whither he went all know full well. 



90 



IDLE RUMOR 

We praise the speed of our trains. 
Our automobiles and aeroplanes, 
Marconi wireless and telegraphs. 
At all of which the philosopher laughs. 
For nothing faster flies or gets there sooner 
Than slander, scandal and idle rumor. 



Humble or great, rich or poor, 
An honest man I do adore; 
Rich or poor, humble or great, 
A rascal I do abominate. 



91 



THE FOUR SEASONS 

Spring, kertled in flowers, with all her charms. 
Falls into ardent Summer's lusty arms; 
Golden Autumn crowns the fruitful play, 
Then snowy Winter comes and ends the day: 

How brief the play! 

How short the day ! 



LIFE 
The beginning and the ending. 

Hail ! the dawning. 
The glories of the morning sun 
When the day awakes with hope and song 

And life is begun; 

Avaunt! the gloaming 
When the day is declining, 
And hope turns to repining, 

And life is done! 



92 



(( 



Then pray, sir, read it aloud," said 
Sancho, "for I mightly relish these 
love matters." 



93 



STILL GIVE THAT TENDER GLANCE TO ME 

The Church declares it shall not be. 
The Law confirms the stern decree. 
Hopeless tho we both may be. 
When no prying eye can see, 
Still give that tender glance to me. 

On the street, at the ball, 
In the exclusive Manor Hall, 
Hopeless tho we both may be, 
When no prying eye can see, 
Still give that stolen glance to me. 

In spite of Church and State and Hades 

And every man and law that made is, 

I still will view thy matchless charms. 

And again enfold thee in my arms: 
When no prying eye can see. 
Still give that tender glance to me. 



94 



CAN I FORGET 

I. 

O the flowers that bloom in summer 
Decking the woods in countless number; 
Can I forget the summer hours 
Passed with her among the flowers? 

Can I forget my sweet Wild-flower, 
Her tresses fallen in golden shower; 
Can I forget those eyes of blue. 
And those lips of honey-dew? 

Can I forget those circling arms 
And that breathing bosom's charms; 
Can I forget that sigh of rest. 
Her fair head pillowed on my breast? 
Can I forget! 

II. 

Bleak winter came upon the blast. 
She and the flowers are with the past! 
Sadly I mourn the love that's dead. 
Broken my heart, bowed my head. 

The summer hours will come again. 
And summer flowers deck wood and plain, 
But nevermore youth that's fled. 
Nevermore love that's dead — 
Nevermore ! 

95 



DONT SIT ON THE GRASS 

HE 

My sweet, winsome lassie O, 
Don't sit on the grassie O; 
A cold will seize you in head, 
Then my lassie will be dead! 

Sit on my knee, my dearie O, 
It will be more cheerie O, 
And my arms will shield the cold 
From the lassie o' my soul! 

SHE 

Never mind my calfie O, 

Don't you be so daffie O, 

It isn't the cold in the head, 

But in the heart makes lassie dead. 

I fear you are a gay laddie O, 
What says dear old daddie O? 
**To be shielded in a laddies arms 
Makes a lassie lose her charms." 



96 



JENNIE AND I 

Down by a murmuring brook — 

Jennie and I, 
In a sequestered nook 
We held an open book. 
But both forgot to look — 

Fie! Jennie and I. 

There alone, under the skies. 

Lonely Jennie and I, 

We read in each other's eyes, 

We heard each other's sighs. 

And it was paradise — 

Aye? Jennie and I. 

Then came love's first kiss — 

My! My! Jennie and I; 

Oh, who would miss 

Its nameless bliss, 

It was more than paradise — 
Hey? Jennie and I. 



97 



CLARE 

I sing not 
Of her form complete, 
Nor of her fairy feet 
That, under her skirt so neat 
With my heart play bo-peep; 

Nor her lips of honey-dew. 
Nor her eyes of heaven-blue, 
Whose glance so demure 
Makes my heart beat tattoo; 

But of the beautiful hair 
Of my beautiful Clare; 
It blows about her form 
Like the willow in the storm, 
And in its threads of gold 
It has entangled my soul! 



98 



ANNIE DOOLEY 

Oh, tell me, tell me, Annie Dooley, 
Do you, do you love me truly? 
Others may entertain me, 
You alone can enchain me. 

Is it wealth of raven hair; 

Or your skin as lily fair ; 

Or your sparkling blue-gray eye; 

Or cheek where rose and lily vie; 

Or laughing teeth thro lips of roses; 

Or your wit your mind discloses ; 

Or your soul pure as the brook 

Where Psyche, mirrored enamored looked 

Or your form so complete ; 

Or your winning way so sweet ; 

Or your dependence as the vine 

Which the oak doth entwine; 

Or your freshness of the dawn 

In the dewy month of June; 

Or the dimple in your chin 

That'd make a Christian sin? 

What it is I cannot say 

Makes you haunt me all the day. 

Fills the night with dreams of thee. 

Driving sleep and rest from me. 

99 



Oh, tell me, tell me Annie Dooley, 
Do you, do you love me truly? 
Others may entertain me: 
You alone can enchain me. 

MY ANGEL 

As I strolled down Broadway, 
Idly passing the time away, 
I met my Angel of years ago. 
Whom I used madly to adore: 

The same sweet smile she used to do ! 

But she was fat and her teeth were new. 



100 



OH, WHERE'S THE HAND 

(This is a lame imitation of Tom Moore's exquisite melody, 
"Here's the Bower.") 

Here's her harp that used to thrill, 

Her's the soul that evoked it; 
Now it is mute and still : 

Oh, where's the hand that stroked it. 

Here's her favorite poet in its place, 

Her's the voice that graced it; 
Her name familiar as her face! 

Oh, where's the hand that traced it> 



101 



IT IS SWEET 

WINE 

When our burden's so heavy we scarcely can bear, 
And cares so beset that we almost despair, 
O sweet with a friend is a bottle of wine 
To encourage the heart and inspire the mind: 
Then cares, like bats, fly away in the dark. 
Sweet sirens sing us to hope and to hark. 
Peace pervades the soul, as moonlight the night. 
And the senses are steeped in lotus-delight. 

MUSIC 

When authors are prosy and books are dreary. 
When thought is a burden and of writing we're weary. 
It is sweet to be enveloped in Music's soft waves. 
To feel the heart melt to its sweet measured staves. 
To view the bright visions that float thro the brain. 
To know its sweet sorrow, so pleasant its pain. 
To feel that death would be robbed of its pangs 
If we could expire with its expiring strains. 

MOONLIGHT 
When the ledger is closed and the day's work is done, 
And the uproar of life's battling is gone with the sun. 
It is sweet in the quiet of the still balmy night 
To watch the soft glories of the summer moonlight, 

102 



The trees and the flowers in their silvery sheen, 
The lights and the shadows that lie on the green. 
Till the heart is enchanted with the fairy-like scenes. 
And the soul, with rapture, is lost in its dreams. 

LOVE 
When friends are a burden and pleasures oppress. 
And the heart feels a longing it cannot express, 
It is sweet to be near my Beautiful One 
And to feel her presence like a holy benison; 
To read in her eyes the depth of the skies 
And to hear her low sighs like music that dies ; 
To entangle my fingers in her long golden hair 
And feel a deep joy akin to despair; 
To clasp her yielding form tenderly to mine. 
As, flushing, she whispers, "Love! I'm all thine;** 
O, Earth hath no pleasure and Heaven no bliss 
To equal the rapture of love's first kiss. 



103 



MY WIFE'S NEW BONNET 

Sweet wife of mine, we are invited to dine, 
Let's go to our neighbor's and have a good time. 
Now, sir, do you know I'm mad as a hornet — 
My milliner has failed to send my nelp bonnet. 

Then, wife of mine, to the theatre we'll go 
And hear the divine Patti in opera ; 
There it is again, and a plague on it — 
You know I haven't a nerv opera bonnet. 

Sweet wife of mine to heaven did go. 
And, bowing, St. Peter threw open the door; 
Thanks, St. Peter, I'll not enter into glory, 
I prefer to bide a while in purgatory; 
For to be plain and tell the truth on it, 
I'll never enter heaven without a nen? bonnet. 



104 



GIVE ME A PLACE, O LADY. FAIR LADY 

[This, with a pretty doll-baby (and some wine) sent to 

Mrs. G , Christmas, 1901, upon her return from Europe, 

she having no baby of her own.] 

You've crossed the ocean grand 
And returned to native land, 

Welcomed by all! 
Wandering by land and sea 
Found you a sweeter than me 

When I don't squall? 

Roam the earth over. 
Sail the seas ever, 

From pole to pole. 
Find you will never, 
With all your endeavor, 

A cuter little soul. 

So give me a place 
In your sweet grace, 

O Lady, fair Lady! 
Then jolly and canty, 
I'll be your little Santy, 

Hey daddy, hi daddy. 



105 



JESSIE, SWEET AND TENDER 

Sweet little violet modestly blooming, 
'Neath the queenly rose assuming; 
The idle world adores the queen. 
Poor little violet's passed unseen. 

Let the world adore Miranda, 
Give me Jessie, sweet and tender; 
One will nestle in the heart, 
The other poison it with a dart. 

When friends are false and fair, 
When disappointment brings despair. 
When by all the world forsaken, 
lessie'll soothe the heart that's breaking. 



106 



GUNGAJINNIE 

[See Kipling's "Gunga Din.] 
Her hair is golden and her eyes are blue. 
Her teeth are pearls and her lips roses two, 
Her form is divine before and behind — 
Enough to wreck a young man's mind, 
A young man's mind. 

The dress she wore was nothing much before, 
And little more than 'alf o' that behind, 
A bustle bag and a thin rag 
Was the dress she wore, 
The dress she wore. 

She's the sweetest girl in the whole world. 
And sets the brain in a whirl; 
More fatal than wine, she is the kind 
To wreck a young man's mind, 
A young man's mind. 



107 



SWEET-HELEN: A VISION 
I. 

"Flow gently sweet Afton among thy green braes," 
So Sweet-Helen sang often in youth's rosy days; 
Her form is now vanished, her sweet voice stilled, 
From my life she is banished, my soul it is chilled. 

II. 

From out the spirit-world this melody evokes her. 
Again the tender girl sings to the heart that is broke so ; 
Over the river she beckons, where flowers ever bloom. 
And the heart that is broken finds balm for its wound. 



108 



LOVE— FAIR AND FALSE 
I. 

Love wakes the earth from frozen death, 
Fans it with the zephyrs breath, 
Waters it with the April rain 
And, lo, its bosom throbs again! 

Love clothes the hills and vales between 
With a carpet of living green; 
Builds her bower in the wooded dell. 
All fragrant with the flower's smell; 
And birds of many colors gay 
Blithely carol her wedding day. 

Love gives the youth manly grace, 
Grows the mustache on his face. 
Inspires him with courage so high 
That Fate itself he doth defy; 
Ready he the guitar to thrum, 
Or to charge to beat of drum. 

Love with strange longing doth oppress 

The fair maiden's budding breast; 

In those eyes where slept desire 

Love now kindles passions fire; 

On her cheeks the lillies paint. 

And touches them with the roses tint; 

109 



Spins her hair of the sun's bright rays 
And veils her figure in its sprays; 
Creates a being of such passing beauty. 
That the youth, enraptured, is lost to duty. 

Thus Love reveals all her charms, 
Implores with bare, outstretched arms, 
Provides the witching hour and place. 
And by every siren grace 
Wooes youth and maid to her sweet embrace. 

11. 

But nature's plan throughout creation 
Is to encourage propagation; 
Having with us served her turns. 
She forsakes, then scorns and spurns. 

Now the flower's bloom is shed. 

The birds to other climes have fled, 

"The trees lift bare arms on high 

In mute appeal to the sky;" 

The youth and maid, both grown old. 

Occupy their corners cold; 

One fumbling her needles and knitting. 

The other gumming his pipe and spitting; 

While the earth with snow and sleet 

Is shrouded in its winding sheet. 



110 



APPENDIX 
Note I. 

MARGARET CAMPBELL HARDING 
I have been told that she was the most beautiful of women. 
More than that, she was the sweetest of mothers. This photo- 
graph, reproduced from a faded daguerreotype taken about the 
year 1847, gives but a dim conception of her real appearance. 
Her fair complexion was perfect; her fine bright eyes were 
hazel — gray; her flaxen-golden-chestnut hair was three feet long; 
and her mobile countenance reflected every passing thought. 
Her unique beauty attracted all, for she was wholly unlike any 
beautiful woman I ever saw. Too lovely for this gross earth, 
the angels claimed her in her thirty-ninth year. 



Ill 



APPENDIX 
Note II. 

Col. John Adair was about five feet eleven inches in stature, 
spare and athletic, with brown hair and beard and a heavy 
long mustache. His features were refined, and one of his fine 
gray eyes had a quaint cast which gave a lively, pleasing ex- 
pression to his noble countenance. His voice was soft and 
pleasant and he was rather quiet and retiring. An accomplished 
musician, he performed on several instruments, and he de- 
lighted in polite, especially heroic literature. He generally had 
a cigar in his mouth which he chewed more than he smoked; 
and there was an easy negligent grace in his dress, manners and 
walk which pleased and charmed. A stranger would never 
suspect that beneath this quiet exterior slumbered one of the 
most heroic spirits that ever lived. Born out of his time, he 
belonged to the age of chivalry. He was in Cuba with Crit- 
tenden and his fillibusters ; I think in the Mexican war, and in 
the great Civil War on the Southern side. In the absence of 
the Colonel, as Lieutenant Colonel he lead his regiment at the 
bloody battle of Shiloh in one of the most desperate charges 
of that war. In the charge Col. Adair fell. Instantly every 
soldier was changed to a raging demon. They swept on past 
his body yelling the most demoniacal curses of vengeance ever 
heard on a battlefield. 

After the battle Col. Adair was found. A Minie ball 
had plowed through the top of his scalp, but without penerating 

112 



the brain. He was nursed slowly back to life, lived several 
years and is buried in Hart County, Ky. 

Kentucky has done justice to the memory of Crittenden, 
Hardin, Clay, McKee, O'Hara, Hawkins and many more of 
her chivalric sons, but, strange to say. Col. John Adair, the 
gentlest knight of them all, is almost forgotten of history. 

APPENDIX 

Note III. 
Victor, or "Old Vic" as he was affectionately called, was 
beyond question the finest bulldog in the world — the Napoleon 
of dogs. This picture, made from a battered tintype, gives an 
inadequate conception of his marvelous points. He was in- 
telligent, affectionate and obedient as a pointer, except in bat- 
tle he was a holy terror. He never fought a dog but he whipped 
it, and he killed many. He could no more keep off of a dog 
than a cat can keep off of a rat. When I first got him, being 
very proud of him, I let him follow me into town to show 
him to some friends. He forthwith proceeded to clean up the 
town dogs; had six fights within an hour and nearly involved 
me in two; so I had to take him in the buggy and bring him 
heme. Seizing a bullock by the nose he could hold him fast. 
When we built our home at Brookwood the dense woodland 
was infested with all sorts of snakes, some of them very large. 
In two summers Vic killed them all. A snake made him furious 
and he would shake it to a frazzle. In hay-harvest I have 
frequently seen him attack a nest of bumble-bees; they would 

113 



swarm all over him and their stings pained him intensely, but 
he never flinched or stopped until he had snapped up all of 
them. The next day his Websterian head would be swollen 
as large as a Hereford bull's. He seemed to instinctively know 
gentlemen, but a person of doubtful appearance was always in 
danger. When I was from home he would lie on the 
front veranda and guard my wife and children the live long 
day. No tramp ever bothered. Even the neighborhood dogs 
found him out and kept away. If one strayed on the place he 
was a dead dog. Vic would kill him, and eat him too! He 
was fond of dog meat. My friend. Governor W. P. Thorn, 
will verify this incredible story. Having reserved one of his 
pups I found two bulldogs, one too many in the family, and 
I presented him to the Governor, who greatly admired him. 
He will tell you many marvelous, but true, stories about "Old 
Vic." 

APPENDIX 
Note IV. 

A few words relative to the persons and places mentioned 
in the Haunted House. 

Frank Jones was the first dead person I ever saw. He 
hung himself from the railing of a stairway in the house directly 
opposite the Methodist Church in Greensburg, Ky. His eyes 
bulged from his head and his tongue protruded from his mouth 
— a horrible sight which indelibly impressed my youthful 
imagination. 

114 




HON. AARON HARDING 

Statesman, orator, and one of the great lawyers of his time. 



Beil, Saddler and Simpson murdered Lucinda White and 
family, five in all, in Green County, Ky., in 1838. For par- 
ticulars see Allen's History of Kentucky. My father, then a 
young lawyer, prosecuted and convicted them all, and fully 
established his reputation as a lawyer. Bell swallowed a quan- 
tity of tobacco and in this way committed suicide. Saddler 
hung himself. Simpson was publicly executed. An immense 
concourse witnessed the hanging, a big event in those days. 
The people began to arrive the day before and continued to 
come during the night and forenoon. All were bad men. 
especially old Simpson, the reputed natural son of a distin- 
guished Virginian of Revolutionary fame. My father, a deeply 
religious man, had a theory that all men would tell the truth 
in the hour of death. He visited the condemned, told them 
their doom was sealed and desired to know if the theory of the 
prosecution was correct. Bell and Saddler each confessed that 
it was. Old Simpson asserted his innocence to the last. He 
died as he had lived, with a lie in his mouth. My father 
changed his opinion as to the truth of dying statements. 

An old gentleman, a widower named Simpson lived alone 
on his plantation with his slaves. He had sold mules for about 
$3,000. For it, it was said, Skaggs, Thompson, De Spain 
and Hunter murdered him with an ax as he lay asleep in bed. 
They failed to get the money. They were wild, gambling, 
drinking men, past thirty years old; and as I recall them, all 
good-looking, except Skaggs, a powerful man, weighing over 
two hundred pounds, with a frightful cock-eye. Hunter, with 
his fine gray eyes, raven hair and whiskers and white skin, was 

115 



strikingly handsome. Simpson's brother, a wealthy man, came 
from Illinois and employed my father to prosecute them. One 
night a mob came to hang them. The citizens of the town 
hurriedly sent for my father; he rode out and made them a 
speech, assured them he would hang every one of them, and 
with difficulty persuaded them to let the law take its course. 
He addressed the mob out near the fair grounds. He then 
practiced law on the circuit and was exceedingly fond of driv- 
ing a fine horse, but, as he was lame and inactive, the horse 
had to be perfectly gentle. He was frequently discarding one 
for some trifling fault and buying a new one. That night he 
was riding a splendid dapple gray which he called Gray Eagle: 
but every time he raised his arm to gesture the horse would 
rear on his hind legs; he would strike him with his cane, but it 
did no good. Whenever his hand went up Gray Eagle went 
up too. Much puzzled at the horses singular behavior he was 
compelled to dismount and finish his speech from a stone fence. 
The next morning at the breakfast table he was greatly con- 
cerned about Gray Eagle, saying he had become tricky and 
dangerous and would have to be sold. I could then and there 
have explained the whole trouble; but thus early in life I had 
formed the wise opinion that people talk too much by half, and 
having moreover a very wholesome respect for my father, I 
said nothing. Some twenty years after, at Rufer's in Louis- 
ville, over a bottle of Bass' ale and a venison steak, I ventured 
to explain to my father the trouble with Gray Eagle. He 
laughed heartily and said he had often thought about it, but 
he never could make out what was the matter with that horse 

116 



that night. Always fond of horses and being then about four- 
teen years old, to gratify me he sent me to school to Raree, 
the famous horse tamer and trainer, to learn the secret mystery 
of educating horses. Having graduated with first honors, the 
only school at which I was ever so fortunate, of course, I at 
once began to practice on my father's horses, and soon taught 
Gray Eagle to rear and caracole whenever I made the salute 
military. 

But to resume my story. When my father was in another 
county at court the mob came again, this time in broad daylight. 
The attorneys for the prisoners, Gen. Wm. T. Ward, Col. John 
Hardin Ward and Capt. A. Monroe Adair, amply provided 
with guns and ammunition, barricaded themselves in the stone 
jail, determined to defend their clients to the last. Three braver 
men never lived and there were men in the mob known to be 
equally brave. The whole town was wild with excitement. 
The leading citizens in vain tried to persuade the lawyers to 
leave the jail. Then the ladies of the town, relatives and friends 
came weeping and screaming and actually forced them away. 
The jail is a very strong stone structure and I have always 
believed they could have held the fort; it is certain that many 
of the attacking party would have been killed before they cap- 
tured it. The mob hitched their horses out of town, and with 
double-barrel shotguns on their shoulders, marched six abreast 
down Main street to the Courthouse square, and filed right 
thence down to the jail. Uncle Jack Moore, the jailer, refused 
the keys. Making a battering ram of a log of wood in the 
adjacent woodpile, they stove in the front door of the jail and 

117 



marched upstairs, where with sledge hammers they beat off the 
locks on the massive iron doors of the dungeon cells, and the 
prisoners were theirs! I slipped upstairs as soon as I could 
work through the crowd. There they had Thompson, De 
Spain and Hunter, all three trembling like lost souls, as indeed 
they were. But Skaggs had given them the slip. He com- 
mitteed suicide the moment they attacked the jail. They had 
dragged him out of his dungeon cell into the large well lighted 
"debtors room." I shall never forget the grewsome sight. 
Drenched with blood he lay flat on his back, arms and legs ex- 
tended, the bloody razor still clutched in his hand; pale and 
ghastly, his throat cut from ear to ear; eyes wide open, one 
gazing at the ceiling and the other awful cock-eye staring 
oblequely directly at me ! Zounds ! I see it now — fifty years 
after. 

The mob started with the prisoners to the Green and Tay- 
lor County line, there to hang them. I and Dave (formerly my 
colored nurse but now my boon companion) of course, must see 
all that was doing. We hurriedly saddled horses and awav 
we went after the lynchers. Arrived at the county line the 
cavalcade halted opposite "Short Bill" Marshall's house, con- 
sulted and decided to go on to Campbellsville to hang them. 
It was then well into the afternoon and we knew that if we 
went on we could not get back home before midnight or after, 
so we returned home greatly disappointed boys. They hung 
Thompson and De Spain to a wide-spreading elm tree near the 
schoolhouse in Campbellsville, hard by Buckhorn Creek. 
Hunter confessed, was placed in the jail at Campbellsville and 

118 



later returned to Greensburg. He retracted his confession, of 
course, but was convicted and hung. 

Nance (?) Hazel, a large, rather fleshy negress, prompted 
by jealously, with an ax murdered two of her fellow slaves, 
man and wife, as they lay asleep. As she rode in a wagon 
to execution, seated on her coffin, I think she was the most 
horrible object I have ever seen. Her fleshy face was swollen 
with terror, her small beady eyes had the wild, frightened 
expression of the hunted beast. She prayed and sang and 
groaned and chattered; and I'm sure hell has no torment sur- 
passing that which she suffered through fear of death. I could 
not see the thing through. She was hung on the sandbar near 
the river ford at Greensburg. Standing on the river bank a 
fourth of a mile away, I saw the huge bundle dangle in the 
air and then whirl around and around. I see it now. I've 
had no curiosity for horrors since. 

To me the finest prospect in all picturesque Kentucky is at 
Greensburg from the crest of "Buckners Hill" or mountain. 
Below you, crowning a dozen green hills, are the red brick 
Colonial houses of old Virginians, neighbors of Washington 
and Jefferson, Madison and Monroe, Randolph and Byrd, 
who in early days built their homes in the then far West, and 
founded a society as intellectual, as refined and as exclusive as 
could be found in the Western Hemisphere. The silver water 
ot Green River flashes here and there in the sunlight as it winds 
along cliff and through woodland and meadow. In a change- 
ful world the changeless mountains in the hazy distance still 
raise their heads to heaven as when I was a boy. At the sum- 

119 



mit of Buckners Hill the highway forks, thence some three 
hundred paces and north of the Glasgow road, a deep, narrow, 
bosky glen abruptly terminates. At the head of this glen bursts 
forth one of those cool crystal springs for which Green County 
is so noted. Directly over this spring stands, or stood fifty 
years ago, "Barret's Haunted House," built of stone and over- 
grown with ivy. 



120 



ftlVG 13 1911 



UBRARY OF CONGRESS 



